Broken Lyres
by GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: "That coin has no value here, sir." (Or: Graham finds himself in a spot of difficulty)


**A/N: Credit to p-r-o-m-p-t-s on tumblr for the prompt used to write this piece. Credit to rycbarm123 for betareading.**

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The innkeeper frowns as he examines the coin, turning and flipping it in his spindly fingers, the metal glinting sharply in the light of several oil lamps that try vainly to alleviate the darkness of the inn. His beady eyes are filled with contemplation as he takes in every detail of the metal disk: the Daventry coat-of-arms stamped on one side, the face of King Edward etched on the other in enduring gold.

His examinations are fruitless, however. A flash of disappointment in his eyes, swiftly replaced with a hard determination. With a faux-regretful sound he tosses the coin back towards its owner, who catches it hesitantly, confused. "That coin holds no value here, sir."

Understanding, Graham slumps, defeated, fingers trembling as they clench around his last bit of coin. Exhaustion floods his bones and he finds himself sighing, feeling a weariness that goes beyond physical fatigue. He's almost suffocating under the weight of gray blankness that seems to cloud his mind, the hopelessness that dogs his footsteps.

Of course. He should have known that Daventry money would be worthless here in Sturston, two whole countries away from his homeland. He doesn't know how he could have forgotten.

Well, he does know, in fact. It's probably the hunger clawing at the inside of his abdomen, or the thirst burning steadily in his throat, or the helpless fear lurking at the back of mind, torturing him every step of the way: _what if they find me, what if they catch me, what if they hurt/torture/kill me._

The fact that these events are almost certain to happen…that only amplifies his fear.

But, the most powerful fear, the one that drove him forward so many miles through hunger and thirst and painful, consuming illness…

_What if they find a way into Daventry._

He fears death, but he would die a thousand times to keep Daventry safe. To shield his loved ones. To protect the king with his life as any knight would.

If they find him, Daventry is lost.

He closes his eyes, close to tears as he feels the tremors of bone-deep fatigue that shiver in the muscles under his skin. How long can he continue? How long can he go on?

He needs food, water, sleep…but he has no means to purchase it. He can expect no mercy. In Daventry, he could hope to receive aid in the form of simple human kindness, but here in Sturston the landscape and the people are harsh and unyielding. They speak only in the language of money, money to keep themselves and their families alive in a world where the lack thereof could spell their deaths.

And his coin holds no value here.

"Sir?"

He opens his eyes. The innkeeper is staring him down, irritation in his gaze. He must move on to more customers, more coins, more money to keep himself and his family alive. And Graham is halting his progress.

With far more effort than should be necessary for such a task, Graham straightens himself and moves away from the desk. "Apologies. I was dreaming."

The innkeeper scoffs and doesn't even bid him farewell before moving on to the next customer. Graham finds himself lost, melting in the shadows, everyone's gazes going through him as if he weren't even there. He has no coin, and as such, he is worse than useless to them.

His steps feel heavy and clumsy as he stumbles out of the inn. Outside, the air is frigid, biting at his exposed face and hands, and he instinctively draws the tattered, filthy remains of his once-jaunty red cape around himself, searching for even a hint of warmth. Through his blurry vision he watches as small flakes of white snow tumble innocuously from the sky, each one spelling his fate.

_I won't make it another mile in this weather._ He'd need a new cloak, food, water, and rest before he could even think of continuing his journey.

But his coin holds no value here.

Tears prickling at the back of his eyes, Graham adjusts his worn feather cap one last time.

And then he's walking, feet sinking in the snow, the landscape slowly dissolving around him in a blur of falling snow.


End file.
